


Red Warning

by TeaRoses



Category: Elementary, Silent Hill
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-13
Updated: 2013-08-13
Packaged: 2017-12-23 09:15:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/924596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaRoses/pseuds/TeaRoses
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is called to a dark town for mysterious reasons.  It's worse than he thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Warning

**Author's Note:**

> So... a long time ago when Elementary had first started there was a commentfic meme and someone requested "Any Elementary character goes to Silent Hill." I couldn't resist and I wrote Sherlock going there. I still kind of like it so I thought I'd share it here. There are no actual Silent Hill characters in this fic so it should be pretty understandable even if you aren't familiar with that canon. (I made up the backstory in here, as we had very little at the time...)

Red Warning

When he arrives in the town, hiking over a hill from the bus, for the first time he wishes he had told Watson where he was going. This is an ugly place, and a filthy one. But the letter told him to come alone so of course he did. He has a gun with him and after his lessons he can use it well enough; he's not _stupid_. But maybe he is a bit of a risk-taker, he'll admit that much. Because only a risk-taker would walk through this eerie abandoned town filled with glass and other people's memories.

Not that he doubts he can win, whatever the game is that the anonymous letter-writer has proposed. Doesn't he always win?   
The fog is rolling in now and he wonders if perhaps he should call Watson after all. But his mobile doesn't work here. He sighs and continues. Brookhaven Hospital, the letter had said, in the South Vale. 

He sees movement in the darkness near a house with broken windows. He turns to see an animal in the shadows. His eyes don't absorb everything at first, or rather his mind doesn't. It's a lizard, but much too tall to be a lizard. A dinosaur? But it walks on two legs like a man and has two big arms like a man and holy _fuck_ it is coming towards him fast.

Sherlock shoots twice and the thing falls. He doesn't stop to inspect it but simply runs in case whatever it is brought friends. He runs two streets away and then stops to breathe.

"A more honest man," he thinks to himself, "would admit now that he's just a tiny bit afraid."

He's finally gotten in over his head. Is there an alien invasion, a Doctor Moreau hiding somewhere? He wonders how fast could run out of this place, then sees his answer when the next street becomes a cliff of broken asphalt leading to foggy death below. It's too late.

Finally Sherlock heads south, his sense of direction still there, and finds the hospital. He opens the doors at the main entrance, gun still drawn, and walks inside. It's light enough to see, just barely. But he hears the nurse before he sees her. 

"Hello?" he calls out. She steps forward, and Sherlock smells rotting flesh and sees that her face is a mass of featureless scarred skin. He shoots again, and the nurse falls twitching to the floor. That thing isn't what called him here. But who did?

He tries to open an office door but it's sealed shut. The next one opens onto a room lined with rusted shower heads. Finally he hears a voice.

"Sherlock!"

In the corner of the room stands a gurney, and on the gurney lies a thing. It looks like another female, but it's covered in oozing wounds, with are moving with what must be maggots crawling inside them.

"You've finally come to save me!" the voice says, and yes, it's the thing on the gurney talking.

"What hell are you talking about? How can you even be alive? You don't have a face!"

Impossibly, the thing climbs off the gurney and stands facing him. He almost closes his eyes because even his strong stomach can't bear the sight of it.

"I don't look so beautiful anymore, do I?" it asks. The voice is an ordinary woman's voice with a rather posh accent, coming out of a bloody gash of a mouth.

"Who are you? I don't recognize your voice!" He should shoot and he knows it but he wants an answer first.

"You never heard me speak. By the time you even knew who I was, my throat was already slit." 

The creature shimmers, changes. Now it's a dark-haired woman in a white dress. Sherlock can see the bloody slit across her throat.

"Do you recognize me now, Sherlock? There was a program on the television, wasn't there? Or did you bother looking?"

"Johanna," he says.

"Of course," she answers. She advances on him and then he recovers his senses and shoots again. The bullets make her bleed, but she doesn't fall or seem hurt. He cries out silently, in his mind, for Watson.

"Watson can't come here. Only you can come here, Sherlock."

He wants to run but he knows she's telling the truth. "What is this place? Hell?"

"It's whatever you want it to be. Or better said, it's whatever you don't want it to be."

"Bradley Johnson killed you," Sherlock says. 

"Did you know he kept me in his basement for three days before he finally did it?" she asks.

Everyone knew that, once it hit the news. "But I had nothing to do with it," Sherlock insists. "Why isn't he the one standing here?"

"Bradley Johnson was only a monster. You could have been much more."

"Could have been? Am I dead, now?"

"Do you want to be?" She reaches out her hand, which has grown shining claws, and touches his chest.

For a moment he almost says "yes." This would be over, then.

"If you hadn't been so busy with your precious heroin you would have answered the call from Scotland Yard. And I'd be back at university where I belonged."

"Heroin wasn't precious to me. It was a means to an end!" But even as he says it, he feels the needle in his arm and wishes it were real.

"It was enough to keep you from saving my life!" she says.

"I don't deserve this," he says, his hand shaking with his finger still on the trigger.

"You deserve everything. Because you're not even sorry. My mother has tried to kill herself twice now."

Isn't he sorry, he wonders? When he saw Johanna's picture on the news, didn't he feel anything? No, he didn't, because at the time he was too busy getting his next fix from a dealer in a filthy bedsit. He had no time for a missing girl or her worried parents.

"I'm through with heroin," he tells her, but he knows that's not what she wants to hear.

"But you aren't through with me," She lifts her clawed hand to her own chest and he stares as her claws puncture skin and break ribs beneath. She holds out her heart, still beating, and offers it to him, standing there with an impossible hole in her chest.

He knows what he has to do. Sherlock lowers his head and takes a bite of the heart. It's salty and bitter and as it fills his mouth he remembers the bedsit. He's looking over the dealer's shoulder at a television where Johanna's picture is shown. His mobile is ringing, but he ignores it as the needle enters. 

"I'm sorry," he says, to Johanna and her parents and himself. And then there is nothing but grey fog and then darkness.

Sherlock wakes up outside, slowing opening his eyes to the sun. His heart is beating and he is breathing, he realizes. When he sits up and looks around he see the road and by the sign that welcomes travelers to Silent Hill. He wonders what would happen if he went back there now, but even he isn't ridiculous enough to try it. He just heads for the bus stop, pale and shaking and thirsty. But not angry. The only one left to be angry at is himself, and he has already been punished.

Was it a nightmare, and does it matter? This is reality, now, the trees and road to the bus stop. There is a sour taste in his mouth. When he gets home, he will finally tell Watson that they have something in common.


End file.
